


By My Name

by pastelaliens



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Beginnings, Fluff, Genyatta - Freeform, Hanamura (Overwatch), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 08:30:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15770382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelaliens/pseuds/pastelaliens
Summary: Genji feels at home— not within the Shimada clan’s now abandoned palace, but rather within the silence he and Zenyatta together occupy.





	By My Name

The cherry blossoms bloom later and later every year. Cold weather lingers, trails chill fingers down the limbs of the trees, delicate flowers closed and shivering and yearning. For Genji, they're just on time, as if they were only waiting for him to arrive with someone important to shake free and open their faces to Spring.

The sun is high and the air is thick and sweet-smelling. When before the scent would stir memories better forgotten, now it moves instead toward a warm nostalgia. Behind his faceplate, Genji smiles.

Hidden passageways he would no sooner forget than his own name made entry into the Shimada castle grounds effortless, even with another in tow. The place is more or less abandoned save for one sleepy guard at the front gate, perfunctory and essentially useless. They won't be bothered. The quiet is complete, only the soft trill of birds high in the canopies and underneath, the barest sound of a petal coming to its rest in the grass. 

When he was young, it was a game, to move through the gardens from one end to the other without crushing a single flower under his heel. He was always better at it than Hanzo, who was heavier-footed, who preferred being rooted to the ground. How Genji has changed; he keeps to the stone path, light footsteps treading over the blossoms, but only to stay by his guest. He wants to laugh but he swallows it— because had they been playing that old game, he would have lost soundly, as Zenyatta's feet rarely touch the ground at all, no matter the path he takes.

As if sensing the suppressed chuckle, Zenyatta turns his head, tilts it in a wordless question. He hasn't spoken since they came to this place, and Genji knows it's out of respect for him and for the ghosts that live here. His master is waiting for him to break the tranquil quiet, when he's ready. But not yet. Genji feels at home— not within the Shimada clan’s now abandoned palace, but rather within the silence he and Zenyatta together occupy. 

He does speak, finally, after the passing of a few moments. "My family's house caused me pain even to think about, once," is his quiet confession. "It feels different now." His chin is lifted, his face turned toward the blossom-laden branches overhead. Was the color so very bright before? But then perhaps back then he was always looking to the places the flowers were not.

"The palace is the same," Zenyatta replies, voice low as if he's still cautious to chase away the hush. "Only you have changed." 

Another smile turns the corner of Genji's lips and he glances at Zenyatta just in time to see a brave petal touch down on a metal shoulder. And the closer Genji looks, the more of them he notices, all nestled in the mechanics of the omnic next to him. Like this, it appears as though Zenyatta belongs here. The cherry blossoms never waited for Genji; they bided their time until Zenyatta arrived so they could make a home of him.

"When I was here last, I met my brother." His eyes turn toward the shrine at which he'd found Hanzo kneeling. "I forgave him," Genji continues in a whisper, "not far from where we stand." The sadness in his voice is not for himself or for what had been done to him all those years ago; it's for his elder brother, lost as he is. Genji was not the one destroyed, in the end. 

He starts at a gentle weight on his shoulder. It's Zenyatta's hand, fingers pressing after that first warning touch. "Forgiveness comes from a place of great strength," he says, and while the words themselves are dogmatic, the tone is something different. In it there are notes of empathy and of pride and an emotion, Genji thinks, a little warmer.

With a grace that was always his as a human and which he still possesses even as part machine, Genji sits at the base of a tree, leaning back against the thick trunk. "Thank you, Master," he says, gesturing for Zenyatta to join him on the plush grass. 

The stillness that follows is full of something else; Genji senses an uncharacteristic hesitance in Zenyatta after he lowers himself to the ground, but doesn't press. Instead, as he waits, he lifts a hand to his faceplate, closes his eyes to the hiss of released pressure as he removes it and lays it next to him among the flowers. The air is cool on his skin, soft and fragrant and welcome. 

Then, careful, comes Zenyatta's voice. "You can call me Master no longer," he says, not faltering under the startled gaze that swings toward him, "now that you have mastered yourself." 

Genji, at those words, expects a feeling of great loss— the absence of a mentor, a teacher, a guide that came to him when he most needed one— but what he feels instead is potential. Without his mask, his expression betrays him; even scarred as it is, his face is bright with hope. "What do I call you?" he asks, hushed. 

Zenyatta has no lips with which to smile, but Genji can hear it in his voice. "By my name." 

A gently trembling breath, and then— "Zenyatta."

"Yes," is the reply, "Genji." 

His eyelashes flutter as a falling petal catches high on his cheekbone. Metal fingertips chase it, pluck it from his cheek, and Zenyatta stares down at the petal in the palm of his hand as though it's something precious. And Genji stares at Zenyatta quite the same.


End file.
